


Noli me Tangere

by Katie_Dub



Series: The Covid Chronicles [1]
Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pandemics, and they were quarantined
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katie_Dub/pseuds/Katie_Dub
Summary: I've never been great at relationships and now here I am navigating friendship with a Catholic Priest, life with a boyfriend and meanwhile a new virus has appeared in China.Still, that's hardly likely to affect me, is it?
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Series: The Covid Chronicles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729906
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wavecloud19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wavecloud19/gifts), [choc_e](https://archiveofourown.org/users/choc_e/gifts), [pepper_bean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepper_bean/gifts).



> Does this sound familiar? Nos Venit is a scene that may or may not appear in this fic, but whether or not it does, they are definitely part of the same universe. Thanks to all the lovely ladies and gents of the LSS

“Kneel.”

His voice, so husky and delicious through the wall between us, the saintly Priest speaking in pure sin. I must have misheard.

“What?”

“Kneel”

OK. That’s what I thought he’d said. Are there really people who find peace in this? Because I am instantly tense, my entire being filled with anticipation, perhaps he’s intending to help me see God tonight, in a manner of speaking.

“Just kneel.”

A little huskier now, more commanding for it, a clear call to submission. But submission to what exactly? His God? I’d have to pass on that. His body? Well, we both know that I’ve been hoping for that much for a long time.

Still though, it’s a little disconcerting to not know what he was asking of me. Here is this man — my friend — who not long ago had laid it all out: _“we’re not going to have sex.”_ He’d told me that friendship was all we had, and while I myself had scoffed at that, there's a bit of me that feels — I don’t know, a little cheap or maybe disappointed — that the first man in over a year to be interested in me for anything other than my tits, is in fact, only interested in my tits. 

Possibly.

Well, I think it’s undeniable that he’s _interested_ in my tits after the events of the day. I just don’t know whether this particular engagement — right here, right now — is tits-based or not.

I’ve worked hard to build a life that doesn’t revolve around sex and started an actual friendship with an actual priest and yeah maybe I do fancy him, but that doesn’t mean I love the thought that at the end of the day, still all I’m worth is how fuckable I am.

Unless of course he’s planning some kind of surprise baptism to cleanse me of my sins. I’d definitely prefer a decent fuck over a tepid face wash. (OK, so I don’t know exactly what a baptism entails. Atheist, what can I say?)

So I decide to trust him. Cautiously. Definitely afraid that whatever is about to happen is something that he’ll bitterly regret in the morning, leaving me expelled from his life like the Jezebel I probably am.

I put down my drink and go to my knees, uncertain whether this is the prelude to an awkward blow job or an uncomfortable prayer session.

The waiting to find out is painful.

He draws back the curtain, face sizzling with desire and I think I have my answer. He may look like an angel of light, but those devilish thoughts hiding within cannot be concealed. It takes one to know one after all.

Gutted. 

But hey, celibacy hasn’t been all it’s cracked up to be, why not enjoy a cheeky orgasm?

But then, he kneels before me, and my submission to his higher power seems suddenly unclear. Perhaps I’m just dragging him down to my level. 

He strokes my cheeks, wiping away my tears and it’s so tender and charged and I don’t know how to handle sex with feelings. At least, I have feelings — of some sort, too early to say what they are exactly, but I feel like there’s a little more here than just lust — the fact that he’s here and touching me like that makes me think that perhaps he does too. He has to, to even be willing to give it a try, right?

Then it all comes crashing down.

Literally.

Another fucking painting falls off the wall, the clattering thud echoing through the cavernous church ominously. The Priest jumps in alarm, falling back on his heels and snatching his hands away from my face.

He looks horrified, disgusted, ashamed. Good to know how he feels about intimacy with me.

Oh fuck off, I know that I can’t read his fucking mind but those are feelings I’m far too familiar with. I’ve seen that look in my own eyes far too often, I know OK? And I get that there’s more to this than how hot he thinks I am or how much he wants me. I get that doing anything with me would be some kind of betrayal of who he is — or who he presents himself as, at least. But you try seeing someone who you really like look at you like that, then you can come back and judge me.

There’s more to his gaze though. Layers of confusion and relief and regret and longing and what feels like a profound sadness that this is the way things are. This is how they have to be. 

Maybe that part’s pure projection, that’s definitely what I hope he’s thinking.

_Please be thinking that._

“This, um —” he coughs, clearing his throat, as if that will wash the lust from his voice “— this is the part where we’d usually pray.” The disbelief on my face is clearly evident, he smirks at me, shaking his head. “You did say that you came here for a little prayer, what did you think I had you kneeling for?” he goads. This is dangerous territory.

"In all of your _many_ sexual encounters you didn't once have a woman on her knees? How unimaginative."

His mouth parts, stunned by my brazen words, or perhaps the mental imagery that accompanies them. I feel like I should apologise, or steer us back to solid ground, but I can't bring myself to care. I'm not the one who made a fucking vow — or, should I say, "no fucking" vow.

“Well, normally in a confession" — he's continuing as if I hadn't brought up his sex life, which is fantastic, really — "I’d give you a penance — don’t look at me that way” — I haven’t so much as twitched my lip, despite what I’m thinking — “and I’d absolve you of your sins.”

“Penance?”

“More prayer, usually, it’s a sign that you truly repent of your sins, and are not just trying to get on God’s good side.”

“So 10 Hail Marys, a round of how’s your father and you declare me sin-free?”

His laugh is real this time, but his eyes still look sad. “I want to pray for you, and I want you to just listen” — I open my mouth, but he doesn’t let me interrupt — “I’ll believe enough for the both of us. We're already in position, what harm can it do?”

So he asked me to kneel just for religious purposes? What is the point of scraped, or at least dusty, knees if you don't come out of it with at least one orgasm?

“OK,” I say, it clearly means a lot to him, and he’s not asking me to do any believing myself.

“Dear Lord, you see before you a lost sheep” — interesting word choice — “one who believes you have forsaken her. 

“Guide her to acceptance of herself so that she will know that she can make good choices. 

“Help her to believe in the beauty of her soul so that when she makes mistakes she will accept herself. 

“Grant her the peace to know that she is perfect just as she is so that she can find the happiness and joy in life she so richly deserves. 

“Amen.”

What the fuck am I meant to say to that?

“This is the part where you say ‘amen’,” the Priest prompts like a fucking mind reader.

“Amen,” I whisper, still shell-shocked by the Priest’s prayer for me. 

If I thought that not talking in a Quaker meeting was erotic that was nothing, _nothing,_ compared to this man praying for me. What did he call the Bible? Poetry? Well that was a fucking beautiful poem that spoke volumes to me of love — and not the kind he swears he’s meant to offer the world.

I don’t know how we got here. I thought I just wanted to fuck a priest, but I think I’m actually falling in love with one. I didn’t even realise that I could love anyone again — and I’ve never loved anyone like this before, not _romantically._ But all the platonic and familial love that once filled me up spilled away when Boo died. 

Fuck me.

I can’t tell you how I get home that night, just that the Priest sends me on my way with a smile that I fear I’ll never see from him again.

Then he appears just as Godmother is finishing her painting of me and Claire for Dad, ready to finalise details for the wedding the next day. He smiles at me, a friendly, knowing smirk that’s more than a little sheepish, with a hint of apology in his eyes and I just know that we’re OK.

The wedding is a strange mix of wanting to be near him — to rescue him from Godmother’s claws if nothing else (although truthfully it’s more that I worry that without the excuse of the wedding he will feel how inappropriate my presence is in his life) — and feeling like I should give him space. He seems to feel the same, finding weak excuses to be near me one moment then vanishing the next.

But we make it through, sadly without even the slightest suggestion of a snog, and while I feel pleased that I get to keep him as a friend there’s an unpleasant itch beneath my skin at the thought that I’m missing out on something potentially fantastic with him.

He jumps in alarm when I turn up at the church two days later, a strange parody of how he reacted to me on the night of my first — and probably last — confession. 

“Fuck me, I thought you were a fox!” he yelps, eyes darting around, just to be sure no vulpine fiends are lurking. I can’t help but laugh at him. “Sorry, um, I didn’t expect to see you again. You’re not here to pray again are you?”

His eyes are narrowed. “Pray” sounds so loaded now.

“Um, no, I wanted to give that whole friends thing a try, if that’s OK?”

He grimaces, which seems more than a little unnecessary, then immediately shakes his head, arms held up in a conciliatory gesture. “Oh no, no, _no._ That wasn’t me being anything about — about you, just that — I don’t know — I figured you’d have someone better to spend your time with?”

“You’re not the only one who’s really fucking lonely.”

A knowing nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like to — I want to try — but, I don’t know.”

“Not sure you can trust yourself with a friend as hot as this?” He smiles but doesn’t answer. It’s probably for the best. “Look, I promise I won’t touch you, and I’ll even try to date if that helps you to see that I know that you’re off limits?”

There’s a flash of something that looks a lot like jealousy in his eyes, a wry smile on his lips. “I want you to date because you deserve to be loved for all that you are and in every possible way —”

“Worried about my sex life, Father?”

“I’d rather not think about your sex life — or anyone’s quite frankly. The point is, I am committed to my calling, I just — I have to be clear about that. Whatever feelings —” he shakes his head “— I want to be your friend. If you’re coming here in the hopes that I’ll change my mind, it’s best if you don’t come back.”

Right, that’s a definite no then. And if that’s his answer even after our time in the confessional, well, it’s clear he’s chosen God.

I like to think I’ve grown enough by now to accept that, settle for some fascinating banter and friendship with the Priest, and look for a satisfying fuck elsewhere.

“Friends it is, then.” 

He smiles with his whole body, relief and happiness pouring out of him. God, it’ll be hard to find someone I could actually love with him around.

I meet Stephen two weeks later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously...  
> I gave my first — and last — confession that had the potential to end in a passionate embrace up against the confessional. Sacrilegious. But God, that tricksy little vixen, sent a painting crashing to the ground so the Priest came to his senses. So now we're just friends with some major unresolved sexual tension between us. Oh, and I've met someone.

The day after my first date with Stephen, the Priest has the day off, so I arrange cover for the cafe and make plans to meet him for a mid-morning coffee.

Only he doesn’t show up.

Without any word of explanation or apology.

When my texts go unread, and his phone rings through to voicemail, my pique turns to worry. Despite my hesitations about going to the church and risking bumping into Pam, it’s the place I’m most likely to find him. 

But he’s not there. 

When the door to the rectory goes unanswered, I try the handle and upon discovering that it’s unlocked, I creep inside. There are no signs of life anywhere downstairs. Cautiously, I creep up the stairs, undecided whether it’s better to call out: does that make my presence seem more or less innocent?

The first door I come to is ajar, and I can see from the hallway that it’s a bathroom - and it’s unoccupied. The next door is closed so I knock gently and listen intently. A low groan comes from inside.

Lovely.

On the basis of the very slim evidence I have to hand, this appears to be the Priest’s room, and he’s very clearly unwell. Do I go in and check on him or leave him to whatever plague has taken him?

Oh fuck it, I came all this way. Let’s just hope it’s nothing biblical.

The first thing that hits me is the smell — or rather, smells — there’s no disguising the mixture of booze-laced sweat, vomit and deepest regret that signify a truly spectacular hangover. The curtains are still closed and when my eyes get used to the dim light, I can see that there’s practically a haze of alcohol in the air that gradually slinks out of the open door, leaving a sorry sight behind. 

The Priest is lying on his bed, covers thrown off and stripped down to his boxers, and while ordinarily this would be a delicious sight, right now it’s more pathetic than anything. He’s curled into a ball and his skin has the unhealthy sheen of one who has recently vomited. 

I walk into the room, and stumble over enough cans of G&T to fill an entire aisle at M&S. That explains the hangover then. The why eludes me though. I can make an entirely unlikely guess that leaves me more than a little uncomfortable, although I don’t especially want to probe at it too deeply.

I reach the Priest and watch him for a moment, there’s a definite rise and fall to his chest, so he’s still breathing. Do I check for a pulse or is that too much? I’m just dithering over this when he groans and rolls towards me, eyes fluttering open.

OK, definitely not dead then. Although probably wondering what his female friend is doing watching him sleep. That’s not an entirely unreasonable question, I’m starting to wonder the same myself.

“Am I dead?” he says at last.

“What?” I had really expected some kind of accusation, not … whatever this is.

“Am I dead?” he repeats.

“You smell like death,” I reply, “I really didn’t think anything could spoil your beautiful looks —” I look him over appraisingly “— but you’ve certainly tried your best.”

“So you’re not an angel?”

I snort. “Are you serious?” His eyes still look slightly glassy as though he’s still half drunk. “Not an angel,” I confirm, “they’d never take me, besides, I think Hell’s more my scene.”

“Lucifer was an angel,” the Priest says solemnly, then lurches suddenly and vomits into the bin by the side of his bed. I rub his back soothingly, waiting until it’s all out, before taking the bin to the bathroom to empty into the toilet, rinsing it out and wetting a washcloth I find in there to take back to him.

His eyes are closed again when I return, and while I perhaps should just leave him to sleep it off, I feel like he deserves to have someone look after him while he’s in this state. I wipe the sweat from his brow and his eyes fly open in alarm.

“Still here,” I say with a grin, “definitely not a demon — or an angel.”

“Oh God.” He tries to sit up, turns whiter than his now slightly questionable-looking sheets and falls back against his pillow. _“Oh God.”_

“You’re not going anywhere for awhile. Sorry. You’re stuck with me.”

_“Oh God!”_ A face covers his eyes, scrubbing at them. If he’s hoping to rub the hangover from them it’ll take an actual miracle. “We’re meant to be having a drink aren’t we?”

“I can get tea — or alka seltzer, water, whatever you need.” He grins, but looks sheepish and tired, and a terrible thought occurs to me. “Unless, is Pam due back anytime soon? I wouldn’t want her thinking there was anything improper going on, having a woman in your room and you defrocked and all.”

It was meant to be a joking reference to his state of dress, but he grimaces at the very idea of being dismissed from the church, then looks mildly horrified as he realises how little he’s wearing. I look away, allegedly to give him some privacy, though I’m actually stifling a laugh at his face. When I look back he’s still topless, but now has his blanket pulled over him at least.

“Um, you — you don’t have to leave. I mean, I imagine you’ve got better things to—”

“I don’t. I’d love to look after you.” The Priest looks sceptical, but apparently too tired to argue with me. Still, I feel I should explain. “Call it some form of payback to the universe for all the times someone else has tended to my hangover.”

“You believe in karma?” I cannot believe that at a time like this the Priest is really doing the religious debate thing. It must just be ingrained in his soul.

“I believe it’s nice to do nice things for people when you can.”

He nods. “Sound philosophy. Anyway Pam is away for a few days — her newest grandchild is imminent and she’s staying with her son to look after their other kids while he’s in hospital with his wife. So that means — that means you can stay as long as you like.”

“Let’s start with tea, OK?”

The Priest has finally managed to drag himself downstairs, newly showered, clothed and a mug of tea in his hands when I finally get down to why I actually stayed so long.

“This is quite the hangover you’re sporting,” I begin, watching him carefully to see how he reacts. “Why did you need to drink so much if you’re at peace?”

He can’t meet my eye, stares down at the mug of tea. I’ve finally decided that he’s not going to answer me when he speaks up. “I told you celibacy was less complicated than romantic relationships.”

Cryptic.

“Far less satisfying though,” I retort, “sexually speaking at least. If you’re lucky.”

He doesn’t answer. I find myself worrying that he will break up with me — or whatever you call the friendship equivalent of ending things. Whatever is on his mind is clearly weighing him down so after several long moments of silence, I speak up. “Do you know what I think?”

“Do I want to know?” he asks with a laugh.

“Probably not. Should I tell you?”

“Go on then.”

“I think that being a priest has given you a lovely set of rules to live your life by so you can escape from all the mistakes you’ve made. But life’s not something that can be lived by a rulebook, not totally. You’re a person, and people make mistakes. Maybe it’s time that you dealt with whatever issues you’ve tried to forget about so you can be peaceful without the hangover?”

“I spent a lot of time praying and preparing for this life —” he falters.

“It’s OK to feel like God isn’t able to give you all your answers surely? Doesn’t your book say ‘the Lord doth provide’, surely He gave us counsellors and therapists for a reason?”

He laughs. “I shouldn’t have given you a bible.”

“Oh but it’s fun to use it to get what I want!”

He quirks an eyebrow at me, a warning if ever I saw one. “And what you want is for me to get help?”

“I have a thought that maybe you needed a little extra help to sleep last night because of certain activities of mine?” My tone is as light as it is possible to be when I’m accusing a priest of getting wasted to forget that I was on a date. “I want to be your friend, but if that’s — if I’m right — you need help. If you don’t want to get it, it may be best if we don’t do this.”

“No!” he blurts out then recovers himself, looking a little sheepish. “You’re right. Thank you. Know anyone good?”

“As a matter of fact I do — although be warned, she wears some seriously sexy little scarves. So hot. Your vows may be in trouble.”

He laughs loud and long.

***

I'm in the pub with Stephen when my phone beeps to signal a text. I glance down at it, it's from the Priest, I turn my attention back to Stephen. 

My phone goes crazy, beeping wildly as he sends a string of texts.

"Do you need to get that?" 

"No, but I'll just put my phone on silent." 

We're only three dates in, I don't want Stephen to think I'm the kind of girl who'll ignore him so I can perfect my latest instagram post or worse - read my work email like Claire. When my phone is silenced, I look back to Stephen. 

"You in an obnoxious WhatsApp group too? I’ve got my work one on mute.”

“The texts? Oh, no, nothing like that. I don’t have enough friends for that.” I laugh. I’m not joking. “That was just my Priest.”

A look of pure dread crosses over Stephen’s face before he quickly schools it into something I’d call polite befuddlement. I bite my lip to stop myself laughing at him.

“Oh so you’re religious?” His voice is unnaturally high-pitched, he clears his throat. “You, um, you go to church?”

I let him sweat for just a moment longer than is strictly necessary, delighting in the way he squirms at the thought, wondering if I look similar when I’m talking to the Priest. If there were a hell, that’s definitely where I’d be headed. It’s so refreshing not to believe all that bollocks.

“Oh fuck no,” I say at last, “though strangely I have found myself friends with a priest.”

Stephen laughs instantly, the sound erupting out of him like he literally cannot hold in the mirth. I can’t say I blame him. I suspect that Claire will have a similar reaction if — or, more likely, when — she finds out.

After several minutes he’s still laughing I find myself caught between offence and laughter at it all. Laughter wins out. “OK, OK, it’s not _that_ funny!” I say between laughs.

“Why are you laughing then?” he protests in between splutters.

“Oh because it fucking is!”

It takes us a few minutes to recover.

“So how did that happen?” Stephen eventually asks.

“I’m very charming, haven’t you noticed?”

“Well, of course, I had — but what were you doing charming a priest?”

Oh God, I set myself up for that one.

“My father married my Godmother earlier this year and they invited their priest to their engagement dinner —”

“Like you do”

“— when you meet Godmother you’ll understand, and — what.”

“You want me to meet your step — your Godmother?” He’s grinning with delight. 

I, however, am mortified at having shown how much I like him only midway through our third date. The only thing worse than catching feelings is telling people you’ve done it. Urgh.

“Play your cards right and you too could have an awkward night in the company of an emotionally repressed OAP and his much younger passive-aggressive, oversharing wife. Aren’t you excited about where sex with me could lead?”

“I am actually.”

I melt a little bit at that. Oh fuck, I definitely have Feelings. Better move on.

“Anyway, my dad’s cool, sweary priest came for dinner. I accidentally announced I’d had a miscarriage I hadn’t had, then punched my soon-to-be-ex brother in law and headbutted the priest. So I felt obliged to go see him to apologise and here we are: I’m friends with a priest.”

“You headbutted a priest? I’m a determined atheist and even I think that’s a bit much.”

“Well it wasn’t so much a headbutt, more that I ricocheted off the punch that my brother in law gave me —”

“— he _what?”_

“Yeah, Martin punched me. He’s a real class act. Claire is lucky to be rid of him. Anyway the priest got caught in the crossfire. Truthfully I’m not sure if I headbutted him or hit him — just that he wound up with a black eye.”

“Wow.”

“It’s lucky I’m an atheist really, I’m not sure what the penance would be for injuring a priest.”

“You’re an atheist?” There’s a definite look of relief in Stephen’s eyes that quickly gives way to laughter. “Does your priest know that you don’t believe in God?”

“Oh yeah, I’m quite upfront about it.”

“And?”

“He gave me a bible.”

Stephen cocks his head in confusion at the thought, fumbling for something pleasant to say about the news, I imagine. “They make handy door stops, I hear.”

“Oh, I read it.” I say gleefully. You’ve got to keep people on their toes, do things they don’t expect, especially when they think they’ve got you all figured out.

“Really?”

Nailed it.

“It gives me excellent fodder for winding him up. I think he rather regrets giving it to me.”

When Stephen’s laughter subsides, he asks me a rather pointed question, “so what do you even _do_ with a priest?”

“He is a person!” I say, my hackles bristling at the way he talks about my friend, regardless of the fact that I would probably say the same if our roles are reversed. “We have drinks — well, tea, he’s trying to drink less now.”

“Woah, woah, woah: he’s an alcoholic, sweary priest? Is he Father Jack?”

“I did not say alcoholic.” I thought it — not that he’s said as much to me, but there’s definitely something not quite right about his attachment to booze. “But he is Irish. Bit younger though, just a teensy bit more comprehensible.”

“I want to meet this guy.” Stephen says, shaking his head and taking a sip from his drink.

Oh fuck.

“What? Why?” 

“I am intrigued to meet your non-alcoholic, sweary-but-comprehensible friend who happens to be a priest.” He looks worried for a moment. “That’s OK, right? Meet the friends.”

Oh wow. I actually really like this guy and he’s taking an interest in me. The last time this happened, well, he was celibate.

This is a good thing, right?

Right.

“Why not?”

***

Stephen and the Priest like each other but there's always an edge to it. Like they could be really good friends, if there weren't something getting in the way. 

It's me. Fucking things up, even when I'm not.

I can't say I totally blame them. Stephen for one must see that while he might have my heart, the Priest has my soul, and you can't exactly blame him for being a bit put out. 

The Priest is harder to read. I don't think he exactly wants my heart - not _consciously,_ at least - but is just a teensy bit disgruntled, just a tad unsettled, that he can't have it all the same.

I always text the Priest first, when I have news or I'm bored or I just fancy a chat. I hadn't realised that was a problem. Boo had always come first, way above Harry — and the rest — in my estimations, so I had never considered putting a boyfriend first.

It’s Claire who enlightens me.

"God, at least wait until I’ve gone to tell Stephen the news.” She sounds pissed off. She’s ecstatic — she’s even smiling.

I pause mid-text to the Priest, feeling weirdly guilty like I’ve been caught doing something wrong, which I haven’t. For once. I think.

Claire’s just told me that she’s moving to Finland full time. It’s hardly a surprise, commuting 1,131 miles was hardly a sustainable long-term strategy. Especially now that she’s met Finnish Klare and they’re enjoying the fuck fest typical of the honeymoon phase of a relationship. Oh and she’s moving in with Klare, presumably to increase the frequency of the fuck fest.

And my first instinct — when Claire and I hit a lull in conversation — is to tell the Priest. Not Stephen, as Claire had assumed.

“I’m not.” I have that defensive tone that always makes it sound like you’re definitely lying.

“You’re allowed to be happy you know,” Claire says encouragingly.

This is really disconcerting. I have never been on the receiving end of such a sincere pep talk from my sister before and it’s based on a total misunderstanding.

“I’m not being — I’m really not texting Stephen.”

Claire frowns in confusion.

“Right. Have you — have you made a friend?” she sounds sceptical. I can’t entirely blame her.

“Yes actually.” I give her my most winning smile. Her frown deepens in response. Rude. “It’s the Priest.”

Claire’s eyes narrow, she’s really pulling out the big guns with this facial expression, it’s a perfect overture of displeasure. Any second now, she’s going to purse her lips too.

“What priest?”

She’s being dense on purpose. I know it, so I stare her out.

“The hot one?" she eventually asks with a sigh," From Dad’s wedding? Are you —” she looks around as though checking for spies “— are you having _an affair?”_

“No, but maybe I’ll suggest it.”

On cue, Claire purses her lips. “This is serious, you can’t just fuck a priest —” “I know” “— he’s celibate —” “I know” “— and you have a fucking boyfriend!”

“Jesus, Claire, _I know!_ Will you cut it out? I am capable of being friends with an attractive man without having sex with them.”

“Since when?”

I want to say something really cutting and smug, but honestly this is a first for me. Much as it pains me to admit it, Claire’s right to be suspicious.

“I’m trying this new thing where I have actual healthy relationships with people who I like who like me, OK? I’m not going to fuck up things with Stephen — or the Priest — by fucking him.” I can feel my face flush even as I try my best to look defiant.

“Oh, well, um, oh. Good for you!” Claire seems to be somewhere between genuinely stunned, and possibly even proud of me. Her face is relaxing out of the frown, but it seems to take real effort. “Still though, are you really telling the Priest about this before Stephen?”

“Should I not do that?” 

There’s the slightest twitch of Claire’s lips. This doesn’t get me a full pursed lips glare, but she definitely considered it. She’s settled on a look I’m going to call patronising bafflement. I think I may be about to be lectured about healthy adult relationships. Lucky me.

“When people are in healthy adult relationships” — knew it — “they talk to each other about things.” I resist the urge to bring up the car crash that was her and Martin. “It’s a wonderful thing to share your life with your partner, to just want to be near them and talk to them about things.”

This is a new and unexpected development. I knew things were good with Klare, but I just assumed that he was some kind of sex god. I really do not know how to respond to Claire gushing like this about a man. I don’t she ever did about Martin. Looking back, that was probably a warning sign.

“I’m not saying this to be a dick.—” Claire leans forward and takes my hand. She looks me in the eye, incredibly earnest. “— I want you to be happy, and —”

“I am happy!” I say quickly, yanking my hand back from Claire and conspicuously wiping it on my trouser leg, just to rile her up. Mostly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I try to help you —”

I’ve hurt her feelings now, and we’ve been getting on so well. I don’t like this. I think spending time with the Priest has made me grow a conscience. I’ll have to have words with him.

“Thank you.”

I surprise both of us with that one. We stare at each other awkwardly for a moment.

“I mean, I like that you want to help, and I’ll — I’ll think about what you’ve said. Things are great with Stephen though. Really!”

She looks dubious, but nods stiffly. Then moves on to talking about Finland. Can’t say I blame her. Still though, she’s made me think, should Stephen come before the Priest? The only way that sounds fun to me is a threesome, and I really don’t see the Priest going for that. Shame.

***

It's 297 days into my relationship with Stephen that he finally drops the bombshell that changes everything. 

It's February 2020 and this year needs to fuck off already. Australia was on fire, there's been swarms of locusts, several charged military encounters, a new plague sweeping through Asia — oh, and the UK left the EU. Sort of. We've got one foot out of the door at least.

Welcome to your twenties, 21st Century. They're fucking awful. 

Anyway, back to Stephen. We're lounging in bed, blissed out after a spectacular round of sex. He'd eaten me out for _an hour_ before finally fucking me while I sobbed "I love you, I love you, I love you" as I came again and again. Seriously, real feelings do actually make for better orgasms. And well, dating a man who enjoys giving you a frankly obscene amount of them in a single session helps too. It'll probably be hours before my limbs remember how to move.

"Your lease is up soon isn't it?" Stephen asks as we're curled up in post-coital bliss.

"Huh?" I grunt, groggy and half-asleep.

"Your lease. On your house. For rent. It'll be up soon."

I look over at him and see him smiling at me eagerly. "It's a rolling six month contract. I don't really think about it."

"How about you don't let it?" He's grinning even wider and I'm definitely missing what he's getting at here.

"Don't let it what?" I huff, I hate all of this life admin talk. He probably should've asked me about boring things like the details of my house rental contract before he made me come so many times I've forgotten how to think.

"Don't let your lease roll over: give your notice and move in with me instead?"

Oh fuck.

A shot of adrenaline runs through me sending me from boneless to alert and ready for fight or flight faster than you can say "major commitment".

"Come on — I love you, you love me — won't it be nice to live together?" He urges, rolling into me and nuzzling at my neck. "I could wake you up with my head between your legs every day," he murmurs in my ear. That would be nice. He pulls back and brushes my hair behind my ear softly. "And we'd save a ton of money on rent." That's true. "So, what do you say?" 

I _should_ think this is wonderful — the man I love wants to live with me — but I'm screaming internally. Seriously. There's something very wrong with me. 

"Will you move in with me?" Stephen prompts again. And like the utter arsehole I am, I cannot think of a single fucking word to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the Priest and Fleabag will get to the good stuff soon! Come say hi on tumblr, I'm [@katie-dub](https://katie-dub.tumblr.com/) :)

**Author's Note:**

> Want to say hi? I'm on tumblr [@katie-dub](https://katie-dub.tumblr.com/)


End file.
